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with a single vassal. Ian sincerely hoped John would accept Langtonat least superficially. He had an enormous respect for the man, but, beyond that, it would be better if John's mind was occupied with a battle of wits near at hand. Letters to and from Italy took too long. In the waiting periods, John was all too likely to take out his spleen on some local issue. Probably the king would not bite off as large a piece of trouble as interfering with the Earl of Pembroke, but, Ian suspected, he and Alinor would make just the right-size mouthful. |
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It was a little surprising, in fact, that he did not yet have news of the king's reaction to the election of Langton. Ian shrugged and sat up as Owain brought his clothes and armor. At the moment there were more pressing matters to attend to. Dressed, Ian stepped out of the tent and sniffed the air. Geoffrey, bless the boy, was obviously providing something more substantial than bread and cheese and wine for breakfast. Then Ian joined the crowd of men drifting toward the back of the camp. A small bell rang; they all quickened their pace. Ian picked his way through the ranks of kneeling men to join Sir Robert de Remy and Simon's loyal castellans. With one eye on the sky and one on Ian, the priest began Mass just as Ian bent his knee. |
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On the last "amen" Ian was on his feet. He stepped toward the priest and nodded at him. The priest rang his bell again, more emphatically. The men farther back stood, the ones nearer by hunkered back on their heels. The silence, Ian noted cynically, was more profound than during Mass. Of course, that was not completely fair. No one expected to understand the words of the Mass; it was sufficient to be there as an act of faith. Being there brought God's blessing upon you; it was magic, and not meant to be understood by men. On the other hand, everyone expected to understand what Ian said, and it might be that their lives would depend upon his words. |
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